


Supernatural and SPN RPS ficlets

by embroiderama



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Ficlet Collection, Fisting, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets written for various memes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. J2 - Shattered

It's not that it was the most attractive mug ever. It wasn't made from fine bone china or handcrafted out of really fancy clay or anything like that. It wasn't a souvenir from Japan or Italy and it wasn't a vital piece of a matching set. It was a generic mug from one of those paint-your-own pottery places, but his nephew had painted it for him when he was three. The mug had his little handprint in green paint, and somebody--probably his sister-in-law--had written "I LOVE YOU UNCLE JENSEN" around the top. But Logan had drawn something that looked like an airplane and a car and a rectangle with a face in it that Josh said was supposed to be a TV.

Jensen knew he was missing a lot, all the time he spent in LA and Vancouver, the short trips home when his nephews were bigger and more grown up every time he saw them. He knew he had no chance of being in their lives they way his uncles were when he was growing up, but that didn't mean he didn't love them, and drinking out of that mug was one of the few ways he felt really connected.

Of course, Jared didn't mean to break the mug. It would be easier if he had, if Jared had broken it out of anger or spite, because then Jensen could get out his own anger and yell at Jared without feeling like a tool. Truth was, Jared was just clumsy sometimes, his shoulders too wide and arms too long to work well in close quarters. All it took was one hard hit of Jared's elbow to the table, and Jensen's favorite mug skidded sideways and crashed onto the tile floor.

Jensen picked up the pieces and stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding the broken shards of pottery in his hands. The shape of Logan's hand was broken in four pieces, and it hit Jensen that his nephew's hand was so much bigger now, that he'd never be three again, never be able to make this mug again. He heard Jared standing still next to him and resisted the urge to push the broken pieces at Jared and demand that he fix the unfixable.

"I'm sorry," he said. No excuses and no promises, because what was the point?

Jensen just shrugged, a tiny lift and fall of his shoulders, and then walked over to the trashcan and dumped the broken pieces inside.

"Maybe you should keep it," Jared said, "make something from it?"

"What do you think I am, Martha Stewart?" Jensen shook his head. "I guess if I wanted to keep it forever I should have kept it in a box or something instead of using it."

Jared frowned. "But that sucks."

Jensen agreed, but he didn't see what the point was. "Nothing anybody can do."

Jared stepped in closer and spread his big, clumsy arms wide. "I can do this."

He wrapped his arms tight around Jensen's shoulders, and Jensen felt the anger and tension at the back of his neck slipping away. He looped his arms around Jared's back, and Jared pulled him in closer. "I really am sorry," Jared whispered in his ear.

Jensen nodded against Jared's shoulder. He knew, and he loved Jared for it.


	2. J2 - Jared has a bad day

Jared took off as soon as the director called cut, his long legs eating up the dirt lot between the cameras and Jared's trailer. Jared hadn't been able to get a line right in less than ten or fifteen takes for love or money, and it hadn't been because they were fucking around. He didn't think anything was really wrong, just one of those days that sucks, seriously sucks.

Figuring he'd give Jared a couple minutes to breathe, Jensen walked over to the catering tent and grabbed a couple of Cokes before heading to Jared's trailer. He brushed his knuckles against the door like some symbolic gesture of a knock as he pushed the door open. Inside, Jared was on the floor in front of the couch, his long legs sprawled out on the floor and his head leaned back on the cheap upholstery.

"Hey," Jensen greeted him, keeping his voice soft.

Jared stayed where he was, staring up at the ceiling. "I know you're just as pissed at me as everybody else, but do you think you could just give me a break right now?"

"Pissed?" Jensen stepped over Jared's legs and sat down next to Jared on the floor. "I'm not mad at you. Jesus, everybody has a bad day sometimes." Jensen scootched closer and slipped one arm between Jared's back and the sofa.

Jared let go of a huge breath and looked over at Jensen, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "I'm just so tired. I want to pull my shit together but I just, I can't."

His voice was rough, hanging on the edge of breaking, and Jensen hooked his arm around Jared's back and pulled him in for a half hug. "I know you were up most of the night with Sadie last night. What about the night before?"

Jared just shrugged, and Jensen knew that meant he'd slept like shit and just didn't have any good reason why. "Okay, c'mere." Jensen tugged on Jared until he was laying down, his shoulders and head on Jensen's lap and his legs curled around next to Jensen's legs. Jensen grabbed a small pillow from the sofa behind him and slipped it between his legs and Jared's head.

"We have an hour, just close your eyes and rest."

"But we need to work on lines. I can't keep fucking up."

Jensen wrapped one arm over Jared's torso and rubbed his thumb in a small arc over the taut skin exposed where Jared's shirt rode up from the waist band of his jeans. He brushed his other hand through Jared's hair, trying to set up a soothing rhythm. "Just sleep," he said. "Sleep."

The pace of Jared's ribs expanding and contracting against Jensen's legs slowed and steadied as Jared gave into the comfort surrounding him.


	3. Jensen/Jeff h/c

Jeff's thigh made a scratchy pillow, but it was softer under Jensen's head than the bathroom floor. Warmer, too--just like Jeff's hand running from Jensen's shoulder to hip, offsetting the cold that leached into his other side from the tile.  
"Jen?"

"unnn?" Jensen pushed out the sound without needing to move his lips.

"You ready to go back to bed?" Jeff's voice was low and calm, settling over Jensen like a blanket.

"Nnnnnn." Jensen's stomach was still for the moment, but he could feel the next wave coming sure as sand slipping under his toes.

"Okay." Jeff's fingers stroked over Jensen's hairline, and Jensen let his sore body relax into the quiet.


	4. Jensen/Jeff, kinky romance

Jeff was in no hurry, no hurry at all.

It was a rainy Saturday outside Jensen’s townhouse and neither of them had any filming to do until Monday, and nothing much mattered to Jensen outside of his own body and Jeff’s hands, Jeff’s mouth, Jeff’s deft fingers working him open. Slowly, so slowly.

“I’m not going to fuck you this weekend,” Jeff had murmured into Jensen’s ear just as he opened his eyes that morning. “I’m going to show you something else instead.” His voice dropped down low, bitter dark chocolate. Jensen knew he was vanilla as hell, but when the kinky side of Jeff came out to play--Jensen had shivered under the covers from the touch of Jeff’s breath on the sensitive skin of his temple--Jensen didn’t mind one bit.

Jeff started with his mouth, working Jensen’s hole open with his tongue, kisses that turned into bites on the curve of Jensen’s ass that made Jensen jerk upward, his cock hardening between his belly and the sheets. Then came the lube and Jeff’s fingers pushing inside--long fingers with calluses on the first knuckles, right where he held a pen or a paint brush. More lube, and Jeff had three fingers inside stretching Jensen just to the point of the burn, keeping him on the edge of just a little pain, just enough to keep him aware of every millimeter of skin that slid inside.

“I’ve gotta go hands-free for a while,” Jeff said, the words making little sense to Jensen until he felt Jeff’s fingers leave him and something slick and hard move into their place. The burn was worse, almost too much, but then Jeff’s hands were on his lower back, smoothing him into stillness, massaging. Jensen felt a drizzle of warm oil on his back, and Jeff’s hands followed, tracing the path of every muscle, untangling every knot he’s accumulated over a long season of filming.

Jensen’s whole body felt loose, liquid, a calm body of water with surface ripples that followed the rhythm of his breath.

“Are you ready for more?” Jeff asked, his palms skating over Jensen’s shoulders to his arms.

“Yes,” Jensen whispered. He was ready, but he wasn’t sure for what. He wasn’t sure he cared.

Jeff smoothed his hands over Jensen’s ass, massaging the ring of muscle with his fingers for a moment before removing the plug. Jensen felt empty, too open, and then Jeff filled him up again, fingers going deeper. Jeff opened him wider--wider than the plug, wide than his cock. God, it was too much, too thick, the blunt tip of his thumb joining the fingers, and Jensen could barely breathe.

He panted, humid cotton of the pillowcase under his cheek, his middle filled with choppy waters where they’d once been calm, and then underneath it all he could hear Jeff’s voice.

“Relax, baby. You’re doing so good. Relax and just breathe. You’re so beautiful. So beautiful. God.” Then he moved in a little deeper and the pain crested and subsided, the ring of muscle not stretched so far, the inside so full, fuller than it had ever been. “Good. Aw, babe. Good.”

Jensen’s cock had gone soft under him, hiding from the pain, but Jeff moved his fingers then, drawing them up, and the new pressure on Jensen’s prostate made him gasp, made him shift his hips to make room. Slowly, so slowly, Jeff rotated his fist inside Jensen, each bony ridge of knuckle massaging that pleasure spot in turn until Jensen felt himself coming apart, shattering, waves crashing all over the place and tears in his eyes, his throat raw from moaning.

Jeff pulled his hand out, and Jensen was left shuddering, empty, wanting. Jeff rolled him over, pressed a frantic kiss to his mouth, and Jensen sighed, arching his back to press his come-slicked stomach into Jeff’s hips as Jeff brought himself off, grinding into the space between them until he collapsed on top of Jensen, breath gusting against Jensen’s hair.

They could spend the rest of the day like that, as far as Jensen was concerned. He was in no hurry at all.


	5. Jensen/Jeff, son

Jeff didn't ask for much. He was the most low-maintenance lover Jensen could imagine so, when he sent a text asking Jensen to skip out on lunch with Jason, Jensen didn't have any problem making his apologies and heading home.

Jensen found him in the living room, leaning forward on the couch with his elbows propped on wide-spread knees and a packet of papers in his hands. He looked up at Jensen's approach, and the expression in his eyes held a mix of grief and anger and something else that didn't quite fit.

"Hey." Jensen sank to the floor in front of Jeff's knees. He spread his palms over the tight muscles of Jeff's thighs and rubbed gently with his thumbs until he felt Jeff start to relax. "What's going on?"

"Everything's just--" Jeff shook his head. "I never knew how different this would feel. And I won't blame you if this isn't what you signed up for."

Jensen's chest hurt, and he kneeled up to look straight in Jeff's eyes. "Jesus. Just tell me."

"I have a son." Jeff smiled, and the joy that had been hiding behind the darker emotions in his eyes became clear.

"You idiot." Jensen squeezed his hands on Jeff's knees. "Anything that's a part of you is what I signed up for."

Jeff dropped the papers on the couch next to him and wrapped his arms around Jensen's back, and Jensen kissed him until he couldn't taste the tears any more.


	6. Jensen/Jeff, angst, new shoes

"I--I think I should've gotten new shoes." Jensen sat on the side of the bed and whispered the words in the direction of his feet.

Jeff sat down next to him, leaning into his shoulder. "Come on babe, nobody's going to care what's on your feet."

"You don't know my aunts. Old southern ladies." Jensen shuddered, smirking for a moment before his face fell back into blankness. "My dad was always on me to shine my shoes. I just--what would he think?"

Jeff took Jensen's hand and twined their fingers together. "I don't think there's much open on the way to the, uh, home other than Walmart, but we can make time to stop if you really want new shoes."

"Headline: Jensen Ackles, former heart-throb and Emmy award winning director, buys his shoes at Walmart."

"Like I would ever believe you care about that."

"Naw. I think I like these shoes better anyway, scuffs and all."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Everywhere I go, they make me think of you.”


	7. Jensen/Jeff, movies

The best thing about movie night with Jeff, Jensen thought, was debating which movie to watch. Flipping through the titles available On Demand, paging through the TV guide, rifling through each other's DVD collections, Jeff's godforsaken VHS. They'd debate the merits of recent blockbusters neither of them had managed to catch at the theater versus early 80's cult classic that Jeff just couldn't believe Jensen hadn't seen, horror versus comedy, Mandy Moore versus Jessica Simpson.

Then again, Jensen considered as he sank onto the couch next to Jeff, maybe the best thing about movie night was just chilling out together--nothing to discuss, no scripts or e-mails or newspapers to read. Just the two of them on the couch and two hours of entertainment to stare at while they leaned into each other, sharing snacks and stealing sips from each other's beers.

The cult classic Jensen had let Jeff talk him into didn't quite hold Jensen's attention, but the soundtrack was good. As Jensen let his eyelids dip to half-mast where he could just see the flickering lights on the screen, he decided that both options were wrong. The best part of movie night with Jeff was falling asleep on the couch with Jeff's shoulder for a pillow and some band he'd never heard of singing a serenade as he drifted away.


	8. Dean: Nothing

[This is a smidgen of an AU for if Dean hadn't been healed in Faith. Warning for sort of character death.]

It was like that fucking movie Groundhog Day, except without any hot Andie MacDowell action And without the radio thing and the shenanigans with the townspeople and being in the same place every day. Really, Dean had to admit, it wasn't like the movie at all except for the dying and the waking up and the dying and the waking up. Not every day, but a lot of days, too many fucking days, and none of them ended with Andie MacDowell.

He'd been resigned to dying, back when he first found out, when Sam came into the hospital room with the broken look in his eyes and fairy tale promises of faith healers. All of it came to shit, of course, because that kind of magic was never meant for Dean Winchester. The doctor wasn't quite right about how badly Dean's heart was injured--or maybe something was intervening even then, sticking its filthy finger inside his chest and reanimating dead tissue, just enough to keep him moving, keep him hunting.

It hurt like hell if he tried to keep up with Sam, and he had to sleep so much that Sam took over most of the driving so that they could get from place to place without spending half the day in a motel room just so Deano could get his nap-nap. That fatigue was a promise of the death that would come eventually, but after Sam died, after he made that deal at the crossroads, he didn't worry too much about it.

For forty years in hell, he didn't have to worry about having a bad heart. His heart was cut out of his chest day after day, and still it pumped, still it beat and bled, and when Alistair put it back inside everything started up again like a watch with a new battery.

When he was yanked back up topside, he thought the pounding, the pain in his chest was from the horror of pushing himself up out of his own grave, from the terror of Castiel trying to communicate with him by microwaving his brain, from the raw job of seeing his brother again. After all, he was bare of scars, other than the angel's handprint, and his knee didn't crackle anymore the way it had since he was twenty.

When he collapsed the next day--down on his knees on the damp, mossy ground, his chest a hot ball of pain and no air, no air--he couldn't hear anything over the rush of his fucked-up heartbeat in his ears, but he had a moment to think that it was kind of goddamn poetic, that it was Dean Winchester's heart that couldn't be healed, even by an angel. Then everything went black.

And he was dead.

And there was nothing.

And then he woke up in the back seat of the Impala, gasping for breath. Sam was over top of him them, clutching him close even though Dean could feel and smell the piss in his own pants. When Sam pulled away his face was red, running with tears, and he kept muttering, "thank God, thank God." Dean didn't know who to thank.

It happened again two days later, three times the next week, and it never stopped hurting like a bitch, never stopped feeling like Sam and Dad and Bobby were all standing on his chest, forcing out the air and the space and the life. He wished he could remember something from that time in between the last rattling gasp and the first rush of air, but there was only blackness. Blackness and then Sam's face, no longer falling apart into grief but grim and determined and distant.

If he stayed dead, Dean had no idea if he'd make it into heaven, assuming there really was such a place, or if he's be recalled back to hell. After a hundred times of dying and darkness and nothing, he thought that maybe that was it, the maybe when he finally stayed dead there would be no heaven, no hell, no Dean Winchester, nobody else.

He yearned for it, prayed for it. Reflected in Sam's eyes, he saw the same nothing.


	9. Weechester cuddles!

Even in Sam's kindergarten class, everybody'd been talking about Dean. They heard about it at lunch from the second graders who'd been at morning recess with the fourth graders. Dean Winchester was a badass. Dean Winchester had run up on the very top of the jungle gym and pulled off some awesome tricks. But then when he was climbing down the mean fourth grade teacher distracted him and he fell.

Everybody said he didn't cry at all even though he said a really bad curse word when he landed on the ground. They said he just sat there holding his arm and said another bad curse word when the teacher tried to pick him up. Sam spent the afternoon being proud that he had such an awesome big brother but worried, too, because he didn't see Dean at afternoon recess the way he usually did.

When school let out, Daddy was standing next to the car out in front of the school, and Dean was inside with a bright white cast on his left arm. Sam wanted to climb in and see what the cast felt like and smelled like, but Daddy made him get in the back seat and put on his seat belt. At home, Daddy set Dean up on the left side of the couch so that he could prop his arm up on the arm rest and then turned the TV on to cartoons before going to take a shower.

Sam crouched at the other end of the couch and watched Dean for a minute. He looked like he was paying a lot of attention to the TV, but Sam didn't think he liked this one too much.

"Hey, Dean?"

"What?" Dean glanced over at Sam and then turned back to the TV.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's fine," Dean said. And he sounded kind of mad, which didn't make any sense since Sam didn't hurt his arm.

"Were you scared?"

"Scared by a jungle gym? Course not, stupid."

Sam crawled over to the middle cushion so he could look at the cast from closer. "Did it hurt when they put the cast on your arm?" Dean just gave a tiny shake of his head. "Did you have to get a shot?" Another shake, and Dean glared at Sam for a second before looking back at the TV, which just had dumb commercials.

"How long do you have to keep it on? Do you think it'll hurt when they take it off?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Dean yelled, his voice all loud in Sam's face. "God, Sammy, would you shut UP?" On the final word, Dean lifted up his arm with the cast on it and slammed it down on the armrest of the sofa. Right away, his face went all white, and he bit his lip, his mouth shaking like he was going to cry. "Shit," Dean said under his breath, and that was a bad curse word.

Sam crawled over even closer, halfway up on Dean's lap, and wrapped his arms around Dean's chest. "Sorry," he said into Dean's shoulder.

Dean was stiff and still for a minute, and then he slumped back against the couch and wrapped his good arm around Sam's back. "'m sorry, too."

"Sorry your arm hurts."

Dean took a deep breath, and Sam just knew that he was going to lie again and say it didn't hurt. Then he sighed and squeezed Sam tighter. "Doesn't hurt so much anymore.”


	10. John & Dean weechester

"Hey, Deano?"

Dean looked up from where he sat on the floor, trying to color in his coloring book while Sammy's chubby fist made random attacks, swooping lines of crayon across Dean's relatively neat work.

John patted the empty sofa cushion next to him. "Come over here for a minute."

Dean's eyes went wide and wary, but he got up and walked over, sitting down on the couch with his hands flat on either side of him. "Relax, bud. You're not in trouble, but I did get a call from your teacher today."

"Mrs. Wasilewski?"

"Yeah. She said you're having a hard time with the longer words in your reading book."

Dean looked down, swinging his legs against the front of the couch. "I don't get why we have to read the long words. The short ones are just as good."

"Well, you're right. Sometimes people use a fifty cent word when a nickel one would be just as good. But sometimes we need the big ones, too."

"I'll just stick with the short ones."

John sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "You want to be able to help me with the car, right?"

"Yeah!" Dean nodded his head enthusiastically. "That's way better than dumb reading."

"What about when I need somebody to read me the directions?"

Dean looked skeptical. "You need directions?"

"The Impala has an awful lot of parts, and she's almost twenty years old now. She needs a lot of maintenance if you want to drive her one day."

Dean nodded again, biting his lip. "Can I?"

"First you need to put some effort into this reading gig." John pulled out his battered repair manual and opened it on his lap. "Let's work on it together okay."

"Okay. Is that a drawing of the engine?"

"That's right. See, the arrows here are pointing from the names of the parts to the pictures of the parts. Can you sound this one out?" John pointed to one of the larger-print text labels.

"Car-boo--" Dean shook his head. "It's too long!"

"Come on, son. Try again. Break it into little pieces."

Dean put his finger on the page and focused, the tip of his tongue sneaking out of his mouth. "Car...bur...ett...ore?" He looked up at John, and then his eyes went wide. "Carburetor!"

"Hey, good job!" John patted Dean's shoulder and then pointed at another word. "Now try this one."

Dean moved around the page, sounding out the words more quickly as he did. John had a feeling that come Monday morning Mrs. Wasilewski wasn't going to know what hit her.


	11. John, Dean - John carrying teen!Dean

John knelt at Dean's side and tried to get his mind moving enough to figure out what to do next. His own bell had been run pretty good, and his thoughts were backing up like a line of cars in a mountain fog.

Situation: Dean couldn't walk on that leg. John had pulled him up to stand, tried to help him hobble out of ouf the woods, but the change of angle, the gravity pulling on the break had Dean turning white and pitching forward toward the leafy humus. Dean's rubs were tender as hell too, and they were too far from a hospital for John to risk causing a punctured lung with a fireman's carry.

A year ago, he could have picked the boy up and carried him to the car, no problem. Now, skinny as Dean was, he was almost John's height, and John couldn't quite work out the logistics of getting those long limbs into his arms and still managing to stand up without dumping the both of them on the ground.

"Dean!" Sam's voice called out, and John looked up. Jesus, how had he forgotten that Sam was keeping watch out by the car? "Dad!"

"Over here!" John called out.

Sammy came skidding to a stop and dropped to his knees next to Dean. "What happened?"

"His leg's broke. Maybe his ribs."

Sam looked up through his damn shaggy bangs, his eyes widening. "Dad, your head's bleeding."

John reached up to touch his forehead but couldn't quite make his fingers connect. "Shit. I can't-- I gotta get Dean to the car."

Sam stared for a moment and then jumped to his feet. "I can't carry Dean, but you can. I'll help." Sam pulled Dean's torso up and leaned him against John's chest. "Come on, Dad, get him in your arms."

John knew the voice of command when he heard it. He help Dean's shoulders against his chest with one arm and tucked his other arm under his boy's knees. Still, standing up seemed impossible. Then he felt Sam behind him, thin chest against his back and wiry arms around him.

"Come on, Dad. Stand up. Push up. Come on!" John shoved himself up, felt his knees wobble and think about giving out, but then Sam's strength was keeping him up, stopping his fall. John took a deep breath and pushed himself the rest of the way straight.

"Good, good, come on!" Sam pushed on John's back, and John walked forward. Balance was a delicate thing, and Dean's weight threatened to topple John backwards more than once. Each time, Sam's hands braced him, kept him on his feet until finally the car was in front of him and he could lean Dean against the Impala's side.

Everything was a little fuzzy, but John knew how to follow directions and before long he found himself sitting in the back, Dean's legs propped up on his lap.

It was a damn good thing he'd let Dean teach Sam how to drive.


	12. Dean, nightmare

Sam didn't know how Dean had taken it, back when Sam hadn't been able to sleep through the night without nightmares. Dean was supposed to be the one who slept hard and fast, sprawled out on the bed and not waking unless something breached the perimeter of the room.

Or unless Sam needed him.

The phrase sleeps like the dead skittered into Sam's brain, and he pushed it away. These days, Dean didn’t sleep like the dead. He slept like hell.

~~~

Dean was sleeping on his side, back turned to Sam, but Sam could still see the nightmare in Dean's shuddering back, hear it in his stuttering breath. He didn't need to see the shattered expression that Dean could only hide when he was awake. Dean rocked back and forth and then jerked up with a grunt, rolling onto his knees on the bed. Beads of sweat stood out on Dean’s shaking arms, and Sam couldn’t take it anymore.

"Dean?" He stood up and stepped across the space between their beds, but Dean just continued to pant into the space bordered by his arms, his chest and his pillow. "Dean?" Sam reached out to touch Dean's shoulder, but he only had a second to feel the damp cotton under his hand before Dean pushed himself across the bed away from Sam, rolling across the tangled covers and tumbling over the edge.

Sam winced at the thump of Dean's landing and scrambled across the bed to make sure Dean hadn't managed to crack his skull open, memories of some of those endless Tuesdays flashing through his head. Dean lay next to the bed, chest heaving, eyes wide and shining with panic.

Sam was suddenly aware of how he must look, looming overhead, and dropped down to lay on the bed, just his face peeking over the edge. "Dean, man, it’s okay." He pitched his voice low, and he could see the moment Dean came back to himself, see the muscles in his stomach relax where his t-shirt rode up, see the shutters come back over the fear in his eyes. "It’s okay."

Dean pushed himself up to sit, leaning his back against the wall with his knees bent up in front of him. "You wanna get the fuck off my bed?"

Sam sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, then folded himself onto the floor next to Dean.

Dean shook his head then bent forward to rest his forehead on his knees. "Wasn't what I meant, jackass."

"I knew what you meant." Sam shrugged, his elbow slipping into Dean’s space. "I just didn’t care.”


End file.
